Murphy's Law
by reathai
Summary: Then: “Charlie,” with the vocalization of a shattering heart. “Jesus, Charlie. Hang on, buddy- Charlie, stay with me, okay? Stay with me….” COMPLETE AS OF MARCH 6, 2009.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

_Notes: Can't wait 'til break. And _Precedent_ is getting there, I promise. btw Charlie, I'm almost sorry :p_

* * *

The floor was hard and cold; it might have been the cold sweat glazing my skin, but somehow it seemed appropriate, for the floor to be as unforgiving as the harsh headlights creeping over the walls. The pills had been old – my father's – but unbearably enticing from their dusty place in the medicine cabinet. I vaguely remembered a handful of small white capsules, devoid of markings or an identifying label on the bottle, nestled firmly in my chalky palm. I remembered shaking hands, fuzzy sounds, the world shifting unsteadily, the numbers. I remembered being ninety five-percent confident. I remembered p. I remembered theories, spiraling out into the darkness of all-consuming unconsciousness.

Then the screech of tires somewhere outside and the detached sensation of a numb cheek pressed firmly against a floor, and the agonizing moment in which I lay. _He shouldn't be home; why are you home?_ But the door had slammed open, and his voice sliced through the half-light gloom that would have settled over the house by now: "Where the hell are you?" I could hear him stomping around, throwing chalk, upending boards, nearly smashing lights in his haste to turn them on. "I need those answers, Charlie!" he called again, angrily, the sound filtering through the walls from the dining room. He would have found my work by now: scattered papers and open case files. It was staged that way, because I knew it had to be mistaken for an accident.

Closer now, and uncertain. "Charlie?" Vaguely, I realized I regretted the decision. He would find me, and the cowardice would turn his stomach. The dosage had to be wrong, or the pills different from what I'd originally thought – there had to be something, because I had calculated the reaction time several times over, and delivered encouraging results. His appearance obviously upset the equation, but by this time, a loss of consciousness should have signaled-

"Jesus _Christ_, Charlie!" Kneeling, somewhere nearby, cold hands trying to rub warmth into reluctant skin. "Buddy, can you hear me? Charlie? Charlie, say something, goddammit! Charlie!" He'd retrieved his phone. The numbers threaded idly through my hazy thoughts, and I tried half-heartedly to follow the conversation, still hoping guiltily that the meds would do their job and get it over with, before the cavalry arrived. Then: "Charlie," with the vocalization of a shattering heart. "Jesus, Charlie. Hang on, buddy- Charlie, stay with me, okay? Stay with me…."

I didn't know what to think, so I didn't. No response, because I couldn't hurt him like that, with such blatant false hope. He had his information ready and waiting on the dining room table, but for some unfathomable reason he hadn't stopped there, hadn't taken the data he'd been dying to have for two and a half weeks. He'd ventured upstairs. He'd opened the door to my room, to find me collapsed somewhere between the blackboards and the window, since I couldn't remember where I'd been headed when I'd felt the first dizzying effects.

I could hear sirens somewhere. He'd draped his own damp jacket over my chest, despite my awkward sideways position across his lap. Hands shaking, he dragged his stiff fingers through my hair, through the tangles that had accumulated from neglect. He continued whispering gibberish, mostly inane encouragement to cling to a life he didn't know I'd been trying to escape. This could have been the end to a winding road of self-destruction. Could have been. But I, a genius, had failed miserably at executing such a finale; my numbers were failing me. The grief might have broken through the detachment if it wasn't for Don's presence, and the anguish he radiated. It almost confounded me, until I remembered that I was all he had left for now.

All he had left. …And today, I had tried to rob him of that. I'd come home from classes – where I hadn't assigned homework for the weekend because I had hoped I wouldn't be there to grade it – and carefully laid the table with the case data. I'd sat down in the living and computed the seconds I would have left if I so chose to find the hunting knife I'd received several Christmases ago. I determined the trajectory of blood spatter from a gunshot wound, then decided that bloodying the walls would be a distasteful parting gift, especially in a house that would become his. I evaluated the probability of fatalities at various speeds for automotive accidents. In the end, I had decided on the unmarked bottle of pills – erroneously.

He was patting my face, begging me to come around, but I felt like a drowned rag doll. Couldn't move, didn't want to move, on the verge of sleep. He sounded distressed. _Charlie, Charlie, Charlie_. The pills could be working, but did I want them to, after this? Confused. Muddled. Emotionless. Sirens.

Nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

_Notes: Wow, guys. Thanks for the feedback; seeing so many responses was kind of overwhelming, as I'd intended to keep this a one-shot. I can see the vague outline of something more, so we'll see how it goes. I've got all break to play with this._ _Thank you for the support! :) Let's hope I don't disappoint._

* * *

It was five days before they took me off suicide watch. Today, Don had reluctantly signed the release forms, and Megan had wheeled me out into the Suburban. The restraints had left bruises. Don couldn't look at me, couldn't look at anything else but me, couldn't stumble past anything except "Charlie, I'm so sorry." It was only a matter of time before he got angry again, and the words would come tumbling out, demanding, "Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you tell anyone?"

I'd considered telling them that it had been an accident, or that someone had drugged my water. But, though the memories were sketchy, I knew that I couldn't cover up an empty pill bottle lying inches away on my bedroom floor. I couldn't escape this one. What did CalSci think? What did the Bureau think? Already, I could feel the familiar despair pervading my chest, trickling into the fragile reserves that had been coaxed into being by Megan's soft words. They were so disappointed. If I attempted again, it couldn't just be an attempt. Don's gaze hardened in the rear-view mirror, as if he sensed the direction of my thoughts.

"I'm here for you, buddy," he said quietly. "Don't look so down. Please."

Megan turned around and smiled encouragingly. "Yeah, Charlie. Colby's bringing pizza for ya, his treat."

I'd have to take meds. Real meds. _My_ meds. I couldn't be trusted. I wished fervently that I hadn't failed so miserably. I wanted chalk, and felt the self-disgust burn my throat.

"-ordered some On Demand stuff for you, and restocked the pantry," Don was saying. He sounded more comfortable in naming everything he had done in preparation, than in directly addressing me. "I'll be staying over a while." He didn't add _if you don't mind_, because we both knew it wouldn't matter even if I did. "I got kicked off the team for a few weeks."

"Beat some guy to a pulp." Translated to: _He's on leave because of you._

He didn't sound offhanded, as he intended. "He deserved it." I assumed that he realized it, and didn't speak the rest of the way home because of it.

Colby was waiting in the dining room with paper plates and napkins. "Hey, man, good to see you," he grinned, slapping me on the back.

I sat down heavily in the first chair I saw, the sofa, and tried to smile back at him. Glancing at the plates, I noticed they had smiley faces on them and wondered if it was staged. "Yeah, you too."

"Had us all scared there for a while." Something shifted in the atmosphere. He would be the one to bring it up, put it out there, give everyone else the go-ahead. I knew he would do it, but I still felt like he'd turned a blinding spotlight on me. What did he expect me to say, _I'm sorry_? "It's good to have you back."

Megan and David nodded. Don was somewhere. I felt trapped; I swallowed thickly. Couldn't retreat, or I'd be followed. Distantly, I wondered if they'd removed all the hazardous objects from the house. Shaky breath in, hold, shaky breath out. I couldn't do this. "I'll… be back," but I sounded more strangled than matter-of-fact, more like the lost sock than the patched quilt. I hurriedly locked the bathroom door behind me, but I could still hear them shuffling around in the dining room, talking in hushed voices. I didn't want to be this delicate. I… I didn't want…

Shaking my head violently, I propped myself up over the sink, refusing to look at my reflection. My skin would be pallid, my eyes haunted, my hair a tangled nest of curls. I flicked on the shower, caught between a decision and irresolution. I couldn't wash this away.

I couldn't.

I had done this to myself, and I… I couldn't… There was nowhere to step back, take a breath, stop. Someone was leaning against the door, and I could feel that pressure against my throat, still hunched as I was over the sink and before the rapidly fogging mirror. It had to be Don. With trembling hands, I unlocked the door, stepped aside, looked at him and felt for the first time since I'd been released that same drowning feeling from that night. _Help me_.

But he just looked troubled, worried, unsure. I watched as he sat down on the edge of the bath, and switched the tap from hot to cold. He stared at me. I sat down on the floor, the cold sweat once again frosting my face and hands. Don's expression changed to one of intense pain.

"Charlie," and he sounded hoarse. "I… You need to tell me what to do."

_No, no, don't do this to me, Don_. "I-I don't…"

"Charlie, you scared me so bad I can't even begin to tell you. I thought I'd lost you. I didn't know what I would do, if they came out and told me you were gone, that they-" He shook his head, his hands balled into fists. "Charlie I want to help you, I really, really do. But I don't know what's wrong. I don't know what Dad would do. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong, what there is to help you through."

"Dad-"

Don held out a hand, and I slowly got up, let him hold me against his chest. His embrace was tight, but I understood why, better than anyone else. "I thought you were dead, Charlie." Broken. Reeling. Still piecing together what I'd smashed so many days ago.

"Dad…"

We were standing, Don still holding me close, one of his hands resting on my shoulder. I could feel him rocking slightly, and the erratic pattern of his breathing. "Charlie, listen to me," he said softly, urgently. "No one blames you for what happened. You're hurting yourself for something out of your control. It hurts to see you like this, and I… This can't go on any longer. I almost lost you. I'm so sorry. Now… now let's go out and have some food – just a little," he added when he saw my protest forming. "Then you can take a shower and go to bed. I'll be here. It's okay."

_It's okay_. It didn't feel okay, but he offered no other choice, and because he all but decided for me, I followed him quietly back out into the living room. He handed me a towel as I flopped back onto the sofa, my eyes automatically drawn to some On Demand movie David had started. Once I'd wiped off my face and hands, Don carefully slid a piece of pizza my way with a bottle of water. I watched the movie with them. Almost felt normal. Almost. Then I fell asleep on the couch because I was too afraid of how my room might make me feel.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

_Notes: Thank you for the feedback :) I think we're starting to wind down... but we'll see what happens. Happy Holidays to you, and a Happy New Year._

* * *

The numbers weren't welcome, but that didn't stop the relentless onslaught. I clutched my head, ducking between my knees as I huddled against the kitchen cabinets. Don had fallen asleep somewhere in the living room. Without his constantly hovering presence, the house felt empty and lonesome, cold, dark, and silent. It felt like despair. My hands shook against my ears, against my damp hair, but I refused to look away from the blurring linoleum – the patterns were everywhere.

Everywhere.

The microwave flashed numbers, the oven had numbers, the floor had parallel and perpendicular lines, the empty glasses on the counter refracted the faint light. Somewhere, I could hear a clock chiming more numbers, filling the yawning cavern the house had become. A car rumbled by and without thinking I calculated its speed.

Numbers.

Numbers.

Numbers.

God. Damn. Numbers.

A strangled moan escaped dry lips; I licked them, but the sick feeling refused to abate, instead accentuated by the slimy feeling of excess moisture. I swiped a sleeve across my mouth and finally raised my head to lean back against one of the cutlery drawers, eyes still closed. This wasn't working. Knowing I needed a release and acting on that knowledge were two different things with two different levels of difficulty. The chalk in my pocket had been burning a hole there since early this morning, when Don unceremoniously stuffed handfuls into my shirt pocket. I could feel it now, against my heart; I could move to a blackboard, and scrawl something, anything, to get the numbers out….

Except, numbers were juxtaposed with terrible memories of guilt and grief. I'd returned the wrong numbers in the last three – probably four, now – cases Don had brought home, and Dad… I knocked my head backwards against the drawer with a muffled _bang_, accidentally catching my temple on the sharp knob and garnering a small scratch. It stung lightly. I dragged my nails across the back of my hand mindlessly. That stung, too. The numbers had stopped, and I wasn't about to let them start again.

-

I woke slowly, not quite sure why – until I heard the muted sniffling, the whispers, and the occasional gasps. "Oh hell, Charlie," I muttered, terrified. Several times before the attempt I'd discovered sharp pieces of plastic, or the sharpened ends of nail files, curiously strewn about the house. I had been negligent of his emotional turmoil then, but having found him laden with deep red welts and a few bloody grazes, and recognized them – and his tools – for what they were, I surrendered to the helpless guilt. Now, following the incident, I was appalled by the idea of interrupting another attempt.

Stumbling out of the chair and accidentally ramming my knees into the coffee table, I set off for the source of the noises with a pressing urgency. _Please, Charlie. Please don't be… _It took me several frightening seconds to orient myself, but I finally found him huddled in the kitchen, wide-eyed and thoroughly distressed, with a magnet pressed against his inner forearm. He'd actually managed to draw blood - long thin lines of it that dotted his skin in crooked lines. I snatched the piece away from him immediately, an action that he protested with startling desperation.

"NO!"

"Charlie! Charlie, stop it!"

"Give it back," he moaned instead. "Don, give it back-" I tossed it across the room, thinking that I'd solved the problem, but he flew into a violent fit by clawing at his face. "Give it back!"

"CHARLIE!" Grasping his wrists firmly, I pressed my face against his and took in exaggeratedly deep breaths. "Breathe with me, buddy. C'mon." He was still thrashing feebly, but within a few moments his opposition had subsided to weak shivering. I pulled a clean dishtowel out of the drawer above us, wet it in the sink, then knelt again to press it against his cuts. He hissed without remorse, still struggling with his shallow panting.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry; the numbers," he gasped brokenly. "I'm sorry."

I pulled him close, an arm tossed around his frail shoulders, and held him tight, my hands sweaty from the stress and fear. The last thing I could tell him was, _It's okay_, but I didn't know what else to say. My little brother was shaking on the floor after hurting himself with a goddamn magnet from some pizza joint. "Charlie… Charlie you gotta stop. What's wrong? …You-you can't do this to yourself- It scares the shit out of me, buddy."

Shaking his head. His hands were cold – not as cold as that night, but still lacking the life I wanted to restore so badly. He breathed in deeply, shuddered bodily, and tucked himself against my side for several long moments; he didn't move, but I could feel the gradual seeping of tears through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. Rocking him gently in the eerily-familiar twilight, I shushed him quietly. _Talk to me, buddy. You just gotta talk to me._ A sharp intake of breath.

"I-I need help, Don-" And it sounded as though he was on the verge of a breakdown, on the edge of some terrible abyss. "Donnie, I can't d-do this."

I started, "Charlie…" in an almost warning tone, but stopped when his eyes squeezed shut in sudden misery.

"Don." _Shit, he really is on the edge. Don't do this to me, buddy… Don't do this to me- _"I don't… I don't want to do this- anymore." He sounded so sad, so broken, so agonizingly hopeless that I hugged him tighter. I felt so helpless.

"You can't say that. Please. Please, Charlie," I murmured into his hair. "Please. Don't say that. I'll help you, I promise. We'll get through this; it will be okay again."

Shaking his head, violently. "It's _not_ okay-" His voice sounded like paper tearing, rough and candid. "I… I _can't do this anymore_."

I grasped his shoulders firmly, his head still moving, and forced him in front of me. "Don't say that! Charlie, don't say that!"

"Why?"

"Be-because," I stuttered, "how could we solve those crimes-"

"My numbers were wrong! They were wrong! Numbers are wrong! I got people _killed_, again!" Wild, now. Eyes wide, with unabashed tears. "Dad _died_ because of-of me-"

"He died of a heart attack, Charlie."

"Because_ I_ was in the garage and didn't call 9-1-1 in time."

Months ago, when I had received the call, I'd blamed him. If he'd just been more aware… had just come in for dinner like he should have…. I resisted shaking my head because I knew what he said was true, that he had died because medical attention hadn't arrived in time. But it was over. I couldn't bring Dad back. I couldn't bring Mom back. It was me and Charlie, and it was up to me to hold it all together – to make sure my little brother never lost that priceless hope. I wanted to hold him again, but he'd moved away, to slump bonelessly against the cabinets as if he'd sensed my reluctant acquiescence.

"Look, Charlie." He barely glanced at me but I knew he was listening reluctantly – maybe even automatically. "You need to move past this. Dad… he wouldn't want you to grieve like this."

Sigh. "I'm tired." It broke my heart that I interpreted multiple meanings.

"I can help you. I need you to talk to me. I'm here for you, buddy. I'm here. I need you."

He didn't reply verbally; after several tense seconds though, he suddenly caved and leaned over, allowing me to support his weight. When he sighed again, it felt like everything had left his body – like he'd erased himself. I wrapped my arms around him just to assure myself that he hadn't flitted away, felt the soft heat of his body against me, felt the penetrating melancholy that he radiated….

I didn't let go.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

_Notes: I sincerely thank those of you who have left critiques and comments; they are very much appreciated. There will be two more chapters following this one. I will be revising earlier chapters for grammar, etc upon completion. Thank you for bearing with me! :)_

* * *

Amita had taken over my classes at CalSci. I was still sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall and trying half-heartedly to remember what she had said not ten minutes ago. The sounds of her car pulling away, of the door closing, of Don's soft words from somewhere – they all rang in my ears, one on top of the other, like a muffled cacophony of reality. Something about a psych eval when I came back. Something about students and their incessant chatter. Something about the boards being replaced, after rather mysteriously being found broken. I didn't remember that last part, but I didn't think it mattered. A flat, bulky something landed in my lap.

"You need to see those, Charlie." Don had sat down opposite me, his mouth set in a soft line that might give into a tired smile or a tight frown at any given moment. Swallowing thickly, automatically, I took the bottle of water he offered and stared stupidly at the package. "They're from your students. Asked Amita to drop them off if she saw you – and I put some from the office in there too. I-I think you'll like them; they should, uh, cheer you up," he insisted, one-sided imagined confidence evident in his tone. I spared him a glance, almost curious.

Feeling numb and mildly shell-shocked for no good reason, I opened the folder. Inside, tucked carefully into the flaps on either side, were brightly-colored cards: homemade, hand-drawn, Hallmark, dollar-cards from Wal-Mart, even folded sheets of note paper. There were pictures in some of them, and math jokes on the fronts of others; I recognized Colby's handwriting on a short note, and a picture of myself with the team embellished with stickers. There were minor twinges of recognition and amusement and that dull numbness, and, beyond them, faint memories of bygone emotions, or trace elements with which I no longer associated.

Most of them bore lines like, "Get Well Soon," or, "We Miss You," words that implied a temporary state of being. I flipped through a construction-paper stack and recognized familiar scrawls, inside jokes, and doodles. _Was_ this temporary? Did they know something I didn't? Did they have more confidence in me than I had ever had in myself? Automatically, I bit down on my lip, receiving a sharp look from Don. I shook my head. "They're nice."

"That's it?" He stared with some sort of vague surprise. "You just say, 'That's nice'? Charlie…" And it sounded like he meant to reprimand me, his lips quirking in that way and his eyebrows cinching together in frustration. Then he sighed and took the folder back, though instead of setting it aside he began perusing the contents himself. "These are really creative. They took some time to make these- why don't you write them a note or something? I can get someone to drop them off…"

_Despite the fact your leave time runs out in three days._ "Maybe."

"No." Getting up suddenly, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a package of pens and a small writing tablet I recognized from the fridge. He tossed them onto the coffee table, hovering expectantly. "Go on," he said, pointing at the colored pens. "Write something. I don't care what. You'll feel better, I know it."

I looked uncertainly at the supplies, then at Don, then out the window. I heard a "Charlie…" in there somewhere, but it dealt a glancing blow to my attention; I wanted to write something appropriate despite all the notoriously inappropriate mental commentary. I wanted to tell them that this wasn't a cold or a surgery, that I wouldn't just appear again as if returning from some especially enriching sabbatical. I wanted to tell them that I was fine and recovering with the help of friends and family, that I'd be back within a few weeks' time. Both routes left a dry lump in my throat that I struggled and failed to swallow multiple times, because I considered them both to be half-truths – and painful ones at that, for whatever unfathomable reason.

I couldn't do this.

The realization washed over me for the umpteenth time with the cold strength of early-morning waves. I really couldn't do this – could I? This constant drowning feeling – Don had tried repeatedly, the team had tried repeatedly, Larry and Amita had tried repeatedly, but I just couldn't do this for them. I had to want it for myself, and I didn't. I hadn't wanted this when I found those pills, and I still didn't want this, whatever terrible jumble 'this' had evolved into. I couldn't do this. Couldn't do this, just as I'd admitted to him. He knew. I knew. Everyone _knew_ and it hurt to think about it, hurt like swallowing impossibly cold and sharp and hard icicles that cut and numbed and choked on the way down. Why couldn't I want this?

My mouth opened slightly, my face turned to Don's brazen expectancy, my thoughts swirled at an incalculable pace… and I blinked. Squeezed my eyes shut. My head kept shaking and from his deep sigh, I knew I'd failed him with my paralyzing inability to grasp his hand and pull myself up from this mess I'd made. I clamped my hands over my ears next, so I wouldn't hear his sad-but-patient commentary again, wouldn't hear anything but the strange pounding of blood. At the mere thought of blood, I felt myself wildly searching for the faded scratches from a nightmare days ago in the kitchen. They hadn't healed, and neither had Don's memories abandoned him.

"Charlie, look at me. Now," he demanded, face suddenly in mine. "I will get you through this, but I need your help. We-we can do this, buddy, okay? I know we can – so… so why don't we…" Don blinked, momentarily confounded with his train of thought, then snatched up blue and green pens and a sheet of paper from the pad. He scribbled something hurriedly and shoved it in my face, a deformed equation that made me cringe perfunctorily. Noticing my reaction, he moved the paper closer, desperate in his insistence. "Go on, you know you want to correct it-"

I took it from him silently. Then I tore it up and threw it away. "No. No math. No math!" _No math. _The words hurt, even as thoughts; feeling strangled, I reached up and grasped the loose collar of my t-shirt and pulled, my eyes wide and blinking frequently to maintain enough moisture. _No math_. _No math. I can't say that. No math. I can't say that; I cant. Stop saying that. I need chalk. I need chalk; where are my boards? Garage- No math! Where are my boards?_

Hands on my shoulders. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. _Charlie_. "…ath, okay, it's okay, I get it. I get it Charlie. It's okay." Cursing under his breath. "Charlie-"

But his phone rang instead, and I knew it wouldn't be good news, just by the way his eyes hardened and his mouth set itself in a tight, serious line. And when his gaze flicked to me like a nervous hornet, I knew it could only get worse from here; it always did. It was Murphy's Law.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

_Once again, thank you for the support! All feedback really helps in chapter development :) Additionally, I'd like to apologize for the long wait in between updates. It's been a little busy here (we JUST got a fresh foot of snow last night - cue the excitement), and this story has taken a bit of a backseat to other work and _Precedent. _There is one chapter left, and it is around half-way done. Would you rather see an alternate ending available upon request only, or published with/after the final chapter?_

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It didn't help that he knew that I knew – that he was going to ask me, and give me that awful pained look of frustrated, misdirected and suppressed passion when the question finally came. He'd break it in softly, with a hesitant, attempted-off handed delivery, and then I was supposed to realize quietly what he was doing. I was supposed to break down like I knew I would, because this was one of his cases and he was my brother and I couldn't let Don down – and _god, Charlie, but it's only a simple tweaking of some parameters. Just reapply the goddamn standard error, solve for a new x._

_You can do it. You're _supposed_ to be able to do it._

I knew he was going to ask when he hung up slowly, with the phone falling gradually away from his ear. I imagined it falling to the floor and Don losing his voice – and the numbers being wiped clean, the mess I'd left on the dining room table, Megan's laugh, dark rooms and late nights and watery coffee. _I can't do this, Don. Don't make me do this_. But I just stared at him, expressionless, from beneath tangled curls that, for once, made me wish I'd had the self-motivation to shower and not just Don's paper-thin direction. By desperate chance my eyes settled on the torn pieces of equation.

"Charlie." Hand on my shoulder. I felt myself flinch. "Buddy, I don't… want to… force you into doing – anything you don't want to do."

It came out as a brittle whine: "I said no." I could feel the tears now, pressing closer in my confusion. He knew I couldn't do this. I knew I couldn't do this. Right? The team should understand this, should know that asking me to refine the… the parameters, to adjust the alpha- _Why are you asking this now? Why are you asking me now? Why are you breaking it to me like this? _Biting down hard on my tongue, I ducked down between my knees, clutching my hair, the bile creeping slowly and insistently along the lining of my throat. I didn't remember the cards. "No. I can't; I can't, Don. I can't."

Bending down with a series of pops and cracks, he moved his hand to the back of my head, his fingers subconsciously fighting through the knots. "Buddy, look," he was saying, "look, I don't want to mix you up in something – you don't want any more. This case-" Breath in, hold, slow breath out; I waited, feeling my own labored panting even out, then grow shaky and unrestrained once again. "It's okay Charlie. Don't worry about it."

I tucked my head even more tightly between my knees and squeezed; if there was one thing I never wanted to hear, it was Don giving in like this. His tone had just run dry of all the desperate hope I'd detected before, and the sudden dearth scared me. There was just warm emptiness. A wall. Everything had stopped. He _never _stopped.

"Don?"

"Charlie, sit up."

"I feel sick."

His hand moved to my back, but I didn't want him to try and – I didn't want him to touch me. Maybe he meant for it to be this way, with my next train of thought dependent on words of his that would not be forthcoming. Maybe he knew that I was tired of the math and what it did to me, but nevertheless needed that threadbare purpose, needed it because it was the only thing I knew. Maybe he saw it the way I understood it: as a second chance. I sat up a little, propping my elbows on my knees and my head between my hands. The silence turned thoughtful.

Don shook his head. "I don't want you back on the case. We'll go to Larry or-"

"This is my work, not theirs."

"Charlie, I don't want you working on this again."

"I-I don't think I want to – either," I snapped at him, "but it's not – for you to decide."

He didn't have the pinched brows and locked jaw, but he was getting there and didn't seem to appreciate the unexpected opposition. "No. You yourself said you couldn't- Charlie, I am not the bad guy here, I don't want to be the bad guy here-"

My fingers grasped the hem of his shirt, winding themselves tighter and tighter until I knew the fabric chafed. "I need to finish it."

"Charlie, stop it! Stop it, you don't need to finish anything! No more finishing!" he exploded suddenly, pulling away and then thinking better of it, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me close. What felt like hot tears splattered my shoulder. "I don't ever – don't _say_ that Charlie, don't _say_ it. You aren't finishing anything-"

I fought against the embrace, feeling distinctly smothered. "No! I want to finish it!"

And then his hands were on either side of me, grasping my arms hard enough to bruise, and shaking me, shaking and shaking and shaking and crying, too. Just screaming. Unintelligible. "No more finishing!" Then I was crying and shaking on my own, and Don looked so lost and sad that I felt the sobs wrenching harder and harder, until I might just drain myself of all the tears I ever had – just in this moment here. When he got up abruptly and left, striding haltingly out onto the porch, I first curled up on the couch and remembered the stark emptiness of everything. Half a minute later, the sound of a phone call filtered in from outside. I got up and staggered upstairs and found more chalk, but I didn't need chalk, I needed a dry-erase marker.

I found a package in the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6a

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One.

**PLEASE NOTE:**

_This is the intended ending. An alternate ending is posted as Chapter 6b; feel free to skip for the "happier" ending. Final notes regarding the story: Thank you, to readers and reviewers. The support has been a motivating factor, and I'm more than pleased to finally complete this :) Thank you for hanging in with me, and a special thanks to those who left feedback. It was fun trying out _Numb3rs_ in a fic ;)_

* * *

I felt out of control. I was _breathing_ numbers; calculations and symbols and shorthand – it was all pouring from the fast-drying marker tip, and for a brief, beautiful second I felt alive. Alone. Just the finite majesty of equations and solutions and variables and the entire _process_, alone with me, in my hand, on the wall, _everywhere_. And it was quiet, just for that long second. But then everything started again, and the numbers had jumped halfway around the room and suddenly it wasn't light outside anymore, suddenly the numbers on the glass were backlit eerily with flashing lights that gave me a headache. Suddenly. Suddenly. Sudd-

I heard, "Charlie… Charlie, you're scaring me!" from the door and the sounds of someone attempting to break in, their shoulder forcing itself against the heavy wood.

I wanted to finish. All I wanted was to finish. "WORKING!" I screamed at him. _Thump-thump _at the door, but the dresser pushed against it hardly budged. The work stretched over the window to the wall, to the mirror, to part of the closet door; its first tottering conclusions had been doodled on the back of my hand and part of my arm. I liked it, being part of the work. I felt dangerous. I felt surreal.

The battering had stopped. Megan was there, though I couldn't hear what she was saying. Don shouted something. I felt like my crowning achievement, my _life's_ work, had been transferred to this room, to these barriers. It was like, the thoughts… they had been moved. Transplanted. Everyone could see, couldn't they? Everyone could see it now. I had gotten it right this time. I had to have gotten it right. The numbers were always right.

Though dimly aware, I realized I was in the corner, knees drawn to my heaving chest. All done. The end. All finished. "Don, I finished. I'm finished, Don," but I thought I was choking on the words and forgot to breathe and strangled myself. Fingers scrabbling at my throat. The marker lay used and forgotten on the floor, not even staining the rug. It was dry. And I was dry too, though I felt like crying again, felt like letting the tears just drain me completely. There was no more Charlie to go around. No more Charlie to share. All gone. The end. Sorry, Don.

The integral sign leaked blood. It registered somewhere that maybe I shouldn't have opened the new box of markers in the bathroom, shouldn't have thrown the empty packaging away, shouldn't have picked up the razor blade Don had replaced last night and forgotten to throw away. What was I integrating again? _But I need a marker, Don_. I needed the marker. I couldn't reach the one on the floor, and this equation_… this part right here… it's missing a variable. I need to fix it._

Dying wasn't supposed to hurt like this. _Like what, then? _I was dying, wasn't I? I was doing something wrong again, and I was making a mess, and someone was knocking on a door somewhere but I couldn't pinpoint exactly where because the corner was a small corner and I couldn't tell anymore if I'd left the light on or accidentally turned it off again or if it had never actually been on at all and it was only the slit from under the door that illuminated the room from the hallway. The ink in this marker smelled funny. Dreaming again. _Why is the dresser dancing? _I shut my eyes. So tired. _Sleepy time. _Lights? No, no. Hello, there. Don't be scared. Dark in here. Cold.

Good night, Don.

-

I felt wholly responsible, with the weight of the world – my world – crashing into me very suddenly. Colby dropped the crowbar and David leapt the dresser, shoving the huge piece out of the way for the gurney. "Charlie," I said, but it sounded too matter-of-fact, and I abruptly _needed_ to know when the dresser had been moved and why I hadn't heard it and where had I been, you bumbling idiot? Where were you when this was happening?

So I replayed it in my head and ran down the hallway after the gurney and bounded into the ambulance still thinking about everything and clutching his cold hand. But I couldn't think past the couch, and the awful look on his face. Hurt and lost and confused and _ready_. Goddamn _resigned_ for something. Then… then I had called Megan. I had called Megan and told her I was scared.

"_I'm scared, Megan. He's- I need him on watch. I can't do this."_

"_He's not alone now? Don, calm down. Don, listen to me-"_

Don, Don, Don, but what about Charlie? Charlie. Charlie, for his sake. For my sake. For the whole _world's_ sake. _You can't die, Charlie, I'm sorry, Charlie, but you can't die. It's my fault. You can't die._ But he wouldn't move and then he wouldn't breathe but the EMTs were moving so fast it hurt to watch and god, Charlie, but why did you write on yourself? Why did you do that? Why did I let you?

Why are you so cold?

And I could see it, the prologue, months ago when Dad died and how terribly I'd treated Charlie. I remembered his daily offerings that would appear unbidden: sandwiches and sports clippings and a pair of beaten slippers and the daily paper and coupons he'd found in the Sunday paper, as if by trying to channel Dad he could lessen his guilt. Old photographs, water-damaged magazines, chipped mugs – my kitchen counter was cluttered with junk. Charlie's junk. And they spelt, HELP ME.

"I'm sorry, Charlie. God, I'm so sorry, Charlie."

I felt so broken up inside, worse than when I'd found him, worse than waiting to hear if he had lived, worse than when I'd brought him home and discovered that he couldn't fix himself and I couldn't either. I felt so bad. So deep and dark and lost and _cold_, so damn _cold_, like I would never really feel the sunlight again, just walk amidst the bright rays like some sort of intransient ghost. But I just wanted Charlie. I just wanted Charlie.

He arrived dead.


	7. Chapter 6b

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One.

**PLEASE NOTE:**

_This is the alternate ending. The intended ending is posted as Chapter 6a; feel free to sample the "unhappy" ending. Final notes regarding the story: Thank you, to readers and reviewers. The support has been a motivating factor, and I'm more than pleased to finally complete this :) Thank you for hanging in with me, and a special thanks to those who left feedback. It was fun trying out _Numb3rs_ in a fic ;)_

* * *

I felt out of control. I was _breathing_ numbers; calculations and symbols and shorthand – it was all pouring from the fast-drying marker tip, and for a brief, beautiful second I felt alive. Alone. Just the finite majesty of equations and solutions and variables and the entire _process_, alone with me, in my hand, on the wall, _everywhere_. And it was quiet, just for that long second. The work had vaulted itself across the room on every available surface, and by the time the bedsprings squeaked, I was scribbling on the dresser top.

"I finished," I told him softly. We weren't looking at each other, but I knew he was listening intently, with the kind of intensity that contracts every muscle and makes the pulse race. He waited; I rubbed my wrists. "You'll have to copy it."

The bedsprings squealed behind me, and suddenly Don was there, pulling me into a tight embrace with tears and mumbled words and something else that I didn't understand. "Charlie…. Charlie, don't do this. Please."

"I…"

"Don't think about it. God, I can't take it, Charlie. I need you. Stop thinking about it, _please_." He had a tight grip. I felt sad, wanted to push him off and go away and hide in a corner, but he was holding on too tightly and I didn't think I had the heart to do it. I didn't think I wanted to do anything anymore – just sit here and draw with this marker and trace the symbols and refine more and fix that one that Don had drawn just a little while ago. Or maybe I didn't. An awful chasm had divided _me_, at the very heart of the matter: math, and no math. A permeating calm had settled since the first terms of my equations, and it had been welcome in the whirlwind of activity, where the numbers had grown so agitated as to demand this release; I felt it now, standing here, felt it in the reluctance to move, to destroy whatever was coalescing. Don's shoulders shook against me, his hands clutching at my shirt. "Charlie, please."

Feeling like an observer, I heard myself say, "I'm sorry," and his embrace nearly crushed my ribs, for what I hoped was only emphasis. He swayed suddenly, still muttering into my hair. "Charlie, I need you. Here. Don't… god, don't ever… You can't leave me. Please, Charlie, I-I can't-" More tears, and I found myself wondering if I had ever seen him act this way, so raw and broken. I felt terrible. When I failed to answer after several long moments, he finally let go and stepped back, grasping my shoulders, staring imploringly with red-rimmed eyes and a tired frown.

I wanted to tell him I didn't mean it, that I never had. A mistake. I'd made a mistake. And at times, I had wished I hadn't made the mistake, wished it had worked as perfectly as I had theorized. Like a simple equation. But this had become much more convoluted, leaving me standing here now with Don, within the same room. Very acutely, I felt the bitter bile and the "I can't"s and the brittle despair. I felt the self-disgust and the aching need to break chalk. I wanted to add more to the work on the dresser and _focus_ for once, just sit and focus after this hiatus and reabsorb it all. Take it all in. See what I'd missed. Had I been on a sabbatical? Had my students known something I hadn't? …Still didn't know?

Don had moved to the bed. The door stood open, and faint light poured in through the window. Eerily familiar. What did I want? Did I want to work again, just once more, before I finally decided it really was too much? I couldn't do that to Don – but neither could I walk out of here and into the street and in front of a car. This didn't feel like entrapment, but more like suspension. Nothing terribly apparent, no dominant emotions aside from a nervous anxiety. I sat down next to Don. Then the tears struck without mercy, and I was leaning against him and crying and saying how sorry I was and how I hadn't meant it but actually had and that I wouldn't do it again and god, but I needed some help getting myself back together and would he stay. Just stay, even if it was only for me to stain his shirt with saline and mucous and sweat and dry-erase ink.

But he just nodded and whispered, "Anything, buddy. Anything."

And when I woke up later, still leaning against my brother in the porous darkness of the wee hours, he blinked, and I told him, "Okay," and he just smiled.


End file.
